


Lycan

by faunjour



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological, Thriller, a pinch of scifi, he just needs a hug, other characters to be added - Freeform, other ships tba - Freeform, ten is best boi i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:33:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25715110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faunjour/pseuds/faunjour
Summary: In which Ten struggles to fight against a demon that lives within him. It didn't get any better that a stranger who offered to help, only used his weakness to take advantage of his demon. Can Ten manage to free himself and live how he always dreamed of?
Kudos: 3





	Lycan

**Author's Note:**

> yeet. i think i forgot how to add tags again. 
> 
> ps. very slow updates.
> 
> This is a prologue onli. 
> 
> & yes there r ships to sail but idk how to insert them in the story yet. nct and wayv members exists in lycan universe.

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

You’ve done morning walks, haven't you? Whether you’re a morning person or not, you must have done at least one faithful walk when the sun hasn’t shine yet, or when the whiffs of air were still refreshing and cold to the touch, and then you see a couple of vendors that offers you something to warm up the eager and unnoticed rumbling in your stomach. A few joggers here and there—or maybe some early office workers. 

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴.

Mornings aren’t good. At least, not for a lot of people. Mornings are obnoxious, and a huge fuck you by the universe for the unlucky ones. When you walk and the sun is yet to shine; and when you get chance to look behind those shady curtains... that's when you’ll see them. They have tired eyes and a pair of lips that appear to have quite the connection to the gravity; a smile never visible.

For this story, we’re going to take a look at one of them. We're going to begin the narrative of Ten and the morning when his shoddy life turned to something even more theatrical. And one day, he will hope that he never noticed the message from the start.

The setting is just around the edge of an old town two hours east of Osaka. In a dusty apartment where he lives in.

If you’ve given half a shit of your “life”, I bet you would clean at least just a little of the dried coffee stains that painted the kitchen table or complain about the nasty smell barging out of the bathroom like a damned addict desperate for something to smoke on—𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. The bedsheets and pillows were scattered everywhere like a fun party with friends were just over, except the reality was a bit different. And the friends he had over was just his inner demons snatching away his sanity, only to replace it with depression and madness. 

Ten awoke light-headed. The smell from the shower caused by his episode last night reaching and reminding him of the inescapable truth. A fact that he doesn’t want to accept. 𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯, his mind says. He took shallow breaths, marched towards the bathroom door, and shut it close. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺.

*𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐠.

A notification sound caught his attention and he stared at his computer across the bed; the screen flashes of red titles and numerous pictures of illegal drugs. The sight triggers his memories of last night— 𝙣𝙤. He does not want to remember it.

After a mantra of curses and his feet stumbling upon the soft mattress, he reached his computer to turn it off, but an unknown message made him unable to do so: 

𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚗: 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

It wasn't new for him to receive messages. Though usually, they're from a registered user and their messages was direct, none of them asking how he was doing.

So, out of curiosity, he replied to the anonymous user.

𝙻𝚢𝚌𝚊𝚗: 𝚆𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞? 

𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚗: 𝙰 𝚏𝚊𝚗? 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 ××××× 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚞𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. 

𝙻𝚢𝚌𝚊𝚗: 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍.

𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚗: 𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠 : ) 

𝙻𝚢𝚌𝚊𝚗: 𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏.

〈𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙧 𝙇𝙮𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝘼𝙣𝙤𝙣. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙣𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧.〉

"Fucker." Ten cussed. Regret of engaging with the strange conversation, he decided to ignore the user and browse a little. Ten ponders whether he'd buy 2 more packs of marijuana or check ××××× forum. However, with the skeptical flattery still lingering in his mind, he decides to do the latter. 

Indeed, his content gathers quite a number of likes and comments. He wonders if he’s just really creative or the people here were all just plain boring. Either way, it works well for him. He enjoys the attention given to his work. It's his passion, after all.

He scrolls through the discussion area from his latest post. Most of the comments asked him for advice, some of it suggesting various types of techniques and there’s a few obvious people of the public internet; clearly disturbed at what’s presented to them. No one to blame but themselves— seaking into a place where only people like him thrives in. 

It wasn't long when another message from an anonymous user popped in his screen. "I don't want to deal with this." Ten, determined to disregard any more odd fiascos from strangers, turned his computer off before throwing his small and fragile body to his loving bed. 

*𝐌𝐞𝐨𝐰.

He breathed out short sob, digging his head to his pillows in hopes of blocking the sound. Although, he knows it was a useless attempt, for the sound lives within his mind. 

*𝐌𝐞𝐨𝐰.

"Stop it."

*𝐌𝐞𝐨𝐰.

...

*𝐌𝐞𝐨𝐰!

"I said stop!" He threw a cushion towards the darned bathroom, ferociously stomping his feet until he reached the door— he caressed it with his shaking hands. Lips matching the way his hands moved, he begged. "Please, stop. I want to rest."

*𝐌𝐞𝐨𝐰...

Ten draws in a sharp breath before turning the knob, finally unfolding what lays within. To be honest, this is a new feat for his line of... 𝘢𝘳𝘵 but, be that as it may, he still expected himself to barf; as it is a sign of compassion. A sign of tender, and sweet, sweet emotions that he had long forgotten.

Nonetheless, he finds himself looking pleased. This is art." He convinced himself, quickly dismissing the silly thought he had about hurling.

He moved closer to his work, excitement stirring up his insides, a familiar pleasure that Ten can't feel towards other things or other people. This sensation is special. It belongs only to him, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 to his art. He strokes the lifeless body gently, careful not to accidentally dislocate anything, or to smudge the pile of blood on the tiles.

"Good kitty." He said.

**Author's Note:**

> this story can also be found in my rp account and i titled it "watashi no yúutsu" meaning "melancholy of me".


End file.
